


No One Would Understand

by Taifics



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: 6 years post-LND, A little bit of family fluff too, Co-Parenting, Gen, Gustave gets to know the real history of his family and is not pleased, Hurt/Comfort, Leroux is his pen-pal, M/M, Raoul and Erik are bad at actually talking with one another, post-LND
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29607981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taifics/pseuds/Taifics
Summary: Six years after Christine's death Gustave learns that his biological father, Erik, used to be the Phantom - a madman and a murderer. Furious teenager can't handle his family's real history and runs away leaving Erik and Raoul behind. This tragic event forces these two men to really, actually work together to find their son. Maybe they will find they can do more than just cooperate.Tale of two men who falsely thought they had learned to live with one another, yet only kept pushing each other away. And a tale of a boy who brought them back together.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Kudos: 16





	1. Mr Leroux has already explained it. In great detail.

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is: my LND fanfiction with a little taste of Leroux who is actually a part of the story. Have a phantastic day, dear readers!

''Did you think I wouldn't guess?!'' the boy yelled. His naturally pale face didn't blush, but went even paler. All soft, delicate features suddenly lost. In spite of lack of any deformations, his face looked nothing like his mother's in that very moment. Erik felt like he was looking in a mirror. A horrible, broken mirror from his past he had hoped never to see again.

''Gustave, let me explain...'' he started, doing his best to conceal fear and shame.

''No!'' his son growled back. ''You had your chance. You had years to tell me and you said nothing, nothing at all! How am I suppose to handle that my father is a murderer?''

''Please, just let me...''

''Mr Leroux already explained it. In great detail,'' he said waving a piece of paper; a letter, one of many he received from Paris. ''It was so easy to guess! Obviously, he got some things wrong...You are certainly still alive... _Phantom_.''

The cold fury started to grow somewhere inside Erik's chest threatening to burst out.

''Don't call me _that_ ,'' he hissed through clenched teeth.

Gustave laughed shortly, coldly, ''Or what? Will you murder me, too? Crush me with that chandelier we have in a concert hall? Is that why you put it there?''

He couldn't stop. He couldn't restrain himself. All he saw then in his sixteen-year-old son was himself, his worst, forgotten, most loathed self. Erik would often come back to this very moment later in life. He wondered if he could have handled it better, were there any words he should have spoken... He never knew. Christine would know. She would soothe their son, she would say that, although past cannot ever be fully forgiven or forgotten, it can be remembered not to ever be repeated in the future. That it is possible to make amends. Something along the lines, anyway. She would know. But she was not there. Erik's heart would stop beating every single time when he came to this thought. Just for a few seconds. Enough for him to taste death, nothingness, numbness. The same numbness he was experiencing every day since she was gone. Only Gustave could make it beat again. If the boy was not there, Erik was certain his heart would never start to beat again. He would simply die killed by the sheer thought of Christine's death.

Now he was there, in front of him – his son with fistful of letters received from some charlatan, some busybody, who tried to discover what happened back then in Paris. Some twisted, bitter...

''Bastard!'' Erik shouted with his lowest voice, the one as deep as a well of frozen water.

Gustave took a quick step back. His eyes widened. Erik knew what he saw. A monster, _Phantom_... And he, he had never ever raised his voice to yell at him, not ever before, not once. He was responsible father, he did all he could. He had taken care of his mother's funeral, offered love and support, asked for nothing. More! He had learned to talk with boy's _other_ father for Gustave's sake, he accepted his presence and even, after months of petty arguments, he had convinced him to stay at Phantasma as a head of public relations! Well, after mysterious disappearance of Madame Giry who was responsible for such things he had no one to take care of that... He had actually _begged_ the vicomte to stay for Gustave and not to take the matter to the court or simply force the boy to leave with him. He had tried so hard and now... Now Gustave hated him, despised him and would not even listen... But was he not right to hate his abhorrent father? Oh, he was right, of course he was!

 _Please, please,_ Erik begged internally, _please, let me tell you, please, do forgive me! I can't turn back the time... I can create a whole forest with mirrors and one single tree, I can write music that would shatter your soul and build it anew, but I can't... I do not deserve your love, I do not deserve forgivness for what I've done, but forgive me that I did not tell you myself. I am a coward. I was so afraid I would lose you too, if you knew, if you knew..._

He really wanted to say it all back then, but all he said was:

''Not so nice to have such hideous father, is it?'' he took a step towards the boy.

All the anger left his son's face in an instant. His big brown eyes looked so familiar... But why? Suddenly Erik, blinded by his own fury, could not recall where he saw such look, such utter, innocent petrification and shock...

He took another step, ''If I disgust you so deeply you may go...''

''Father...'' the boy stuttered quietly, all confidence leaving him at once.

''Do so, _mon petit monsieur_ , do so, but quickly! Man as hideous as I am is capable of many abominable deeds!'' Erik hit the keys of the piano when he was passing it by like he was trying to emphasise his words and that made it. Gustave turned back, nearly tripping over the edge of Persian carpet and ran. He ran in panic, he ran fast, down the staircase. He ran never to come back.

*

The loud disharmonic noise of the piano melted into nothingness leaving Erik alone in the emptiest room he had ever been in. For a short while he did not move. He kept listening to his own heavy breathing and rush of his very own blood.

''Gustave...'' he whimpered quietly, ''...no...''


	2. Not an easy tale. Not a pretty one.

Meanwhile, Vicomte de Chagny was in his spacious rooms generously granted to him by Mister Y. He had just left his office after updating the long list of appointments with local authorities and investors for the next week.

He sighed, took his jacket off and sat down in comfortable armchair by the fireplace. His instinct told him to call for a drink, but he knew that was one thing he could not do. He was sober. Permanently. No one-drinks, quick-drinks or any other insignificant-nightcups. No. He had stopped shortly after... (He covered his face with his hands.) … she died.

He would never thought it possible. To work... He had never had to work to survive before. Let alone working at some circus owned by a murderer, a madman, the man who stole his wife's heart! But he had had to give up his pride, all dignity for the sake of his son... _their_ son. He had had no money, no wife, he was stinking drunk, pitiful creature... and for a moment he thought he had lost Gustave too.

For a short time after the tragedy occured he had fought hard between giving up and drowning in alcohol and fighting for his son, taking him away, stealing him, refusing to believe he is not actually... his. Maybe court? The law! The law would be on his side, he had thought! He was, after all, the vicomte. Penniless, he might have been, but still much more reliable than some circus freak with half of his face covered with a mask. But no. He could not do so.

There had been so much going on back then: the scandal, the funeral, police looking for Madame Giry and Meg with no result, questions, questions, questions... They had probably learned a thing or two working with _him_. They had certainly known how to vanish.

Vicomte had wanted to blame Phantom for all of this, but somehow he could not. It was his fault, he had left her with him, he had been no husband at all for years so he was to blame for the tragedy... Oh, it had been him, Raoul, always too blind to see, treating Christine like a child from the very beginning, not understanding her, taking her music away, not letting her sing... _Vicomtesse should not sing_... He had never actually _comprehended_ her. The complexity, the soul...

Good God... It had been far beyond him! So beyond that he had actually started to talk to this... _man_. It was so odd to talk. Reasonably. Like two mature men. Talking about the future, plans, son... Gustave, oh, sweet boy, even after all these years of neglecting him, not spending enough time with him, he had been more than certain that he had two fathers and not one. He had acted far beyond his age and that made both Raoul and Mister Y act accordingly, too.

Sudden loss of Christine was just like somebody had removed a inflamable substance out of the way of two wild flames – two men who could not stand each other had simply stopped fighting. They had not start to actually _like_ one another, but they had known that they cannot fight or there will be another tragedy at hand.

Raoul called for tea. Simple camomile tea. Maid brough it quickly. He thanked her kindly, took a steaming sip and went back to the same passage of memories he went through almost every day for nearly six years then – the strange passage that led him to where he was. He felt he had to go through it over and over again because otherwise he was afraid he would start to think that all of this was just a wild dream. The vicomte closed his eyes.

Poor Raoul with no money, barely able to pay for his stay at the hotel, not willing to go back to France to face his family... He had received enough letters from them to know that Paris was boiling with gossips. No, he could not go back. New York, on the other hand, could not care less. Scandal lasted briefly. World there was quick to forget.

Raoul had nearly died, drowning in guilt, debt, grief, self-loathing and confusion, but when he was right on the edge, _he_ came.

It was soon after Christin's death. He had gotten drunk in his hotel room. To be perfectly honest he had wanted to kill himself this way. However, it had not work out.

Raoul had passed away on the floor and when he woke up, there he was – Mr Y, Phantom, that _monstrosity_.

''Sit, but do so carefully,'' he said, helping him to sit. No malice, no mockery in his voice. Just this deep, dark, calm sadness that had kept surrounding his whole persona since the moment of her death.

Raoul had felt his head spinning and almost fell back to the floor, but Phantom's firm arm held him in place.

''I brought some water,'' he said placing glass in his hands. ''Better drink it.''

He did. It was icy-cold and thus very refreshing. He had wondered fleetingly, if there may have been some poison in it, but quickly decided he could not care less.

''Why did you come?'' the vicomte managed to say with his voice harsh and so quiet it was barely audible.

''I had a thought you may do something... unwise,'' he said slowly.

''Like you cared!'' Raoul snorted, putting a glass aside and trying to stand up, yet fruitlessly.

''I do. For the sake of our son.''

Raoul laughed sadly, ''Your son, you meant to say.''

''Our. He said you are no less his father than I am. I cannot blame him. I am still, but a stranger to him. You may not be his biological father, but it is you who he knows and respects and...'' he paused, ''...loves. I must respect his will. And his will is for you to live and be there for him so be there for him, Vicomte. Alive. He lost one parent. Don't make him lose another one.''

He looked back at the masked man. The man he hated so ferociously. He nodded and took the offered hand. He stood up.

The vicomte sighed, ''Call me Raoul,'' he said not letting Phantom's hand go. ''If we are to co-parent...''

''Erik,'' he replied to Vicomte's surprise, shaking his hand briefly.

_Erik._

Suddenly he was no ghost, but a man. Composed and reasonable man with such ordinary, timid name: _Erik_.

It had taken some time and some stupid quarrels, some harsh words before he actually fully accepted him as a part of his life. It may have been sick, insane: the vicomte who cut himself off from his aristocratic family in France, co-parenting a foster-child of his wife and her lover, a badly deformed madman and a murderer. Not to say a circus owner. And he, the vicomte, accepted a job at this circus. An actual job. No one would ever understand.

It was a tale of two men on their way to redemption.

Not an easy tale. Not a pretty one.

No one would understand.


	3. We are in this together.

Raoul felt sleepy.

That habit of going through the passage of memories had always been working on him like some kind of _katharsis_. It had been able to remove every bad feeling, clean his head and reasure him that, despite its madness, his life made sense. He felt at peace. He felt sleepy.

He had cleaned up, changed and put an empty cup back on a tray. And just then, when he had already sat on the edge of his large bed, he heard quick steps somewhere outside and loud knocking or even feverish thudding on his door.

''What the hell...'' he muttered under his breath, heading towards the door and putting a dressing-gown on his way there. ''Coming!'' he shouted when thudding went really violent.

Before he could even open the doors fully somebody forced himself inside, pushing Raoul aside.

''Erik?!'' he gasped and then saw him properly. No coat, just jacket, hair disheveled, dark, haunting eyes madly looking for something. ''What happened?''

''Is he here?''

''Is who here?''

''Gustave!''

''No, of course, not. It's late. Hasn't he come back home or..?''

''No, no, no!'' Erik moaned loudly. He looked like a madman again. Clutching his hair, whimpering, visibly in panic, mask slightly askew.

Raoul had not seen him like that for... sixteen years. He collected himself quickly. One of them had to be in control, for God's sake!

''Stop!'' he commanded, grabbing Erik by his scrawny arms. ''Please, try to calm down!'' He was at the verge of hyperventilating. Raoul saw it. ''Breath.''

At first Erik did not seem to hear him at all, but after a while he calmed a little looking straight into Vicomte's eyes. These dark, expressive eyes were particularly alive then and full of... What was it? Guilt?

''Tell me,'' Raoul started, ''what happened?''

''Have you... Have you heard of a man called Gaston Leroux, by-by any chance?'' he managed to say after a while.

The sudden change in Vicomte's face told Erik that indeed he heard of him.

Raoul let Erik's arms go and nervously scratched his cheeek, ''Well, yes, I have. He's some sort of a journalist, I think? Anyway, shortly after the...'' he hesitated, looking at Erik's face briefly, ''… affair at the opera, he came to me looking for answers. He said he wanted _the people_ to know what actually happened and such like. And I told him some things... Not many. Mostly lies to avoid scandal...''

Erik raised his hands impatiently like he was begging God for assistance, ''You idiot! You complete, utter fool! You have no idea what you have done!''

Raoul was confused, ''What do you mean? It's not like he actually published it as a work of fact. From what I've heard he became a laughing stock after trying to made his tale into an article. No one had believed him so he changed some things and published it as a work of fiction in _Le Gaulois_. Not so long ago. A year? It is known as _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_. I was actually wondering if I should bring the case to the court because he had not change the names, nor he asked for permission, but I had no time for this. Oh, speaking of time, we have to decide if we sell rights to your two arias to Hammerstain or not. The deadline is on Thuesday, so...''

Erik growled. The sound was low and oddly inhuman. Raoul raised his head to see the pure anger in the other man's eyes.

''Why did you not inform me about all of this?'' the masked man asked, barely containing himself. ''Did you intend to humilitate me? Did you want Gustave to leave me? Oh, you did, Vicomte! It's so obvious now! You orchestrated this! You introduced my son to this Leroux!''

Raoul knew it was bad. He usually called him per 'Vicomte' when he was displeased with him. ''What are you talking about?'' he asked bewildered. ''Why would I wish Gustave to leave you? He is our son! We are both here, he is here... I thought we have it all settled by now.''

''So did I, but you started to plot some conspiracy against me!''

Raoul raised his gaze like he asked Heavens to help him, ''There is no conspiracy!'' he shouted back. ''Oh, for Christ's sake, stop looking for someone to blame for... I don't even know what! Please, calm down and explain it. Please, if something happened to Gustave I need to know...'' Erik looked like he was somewhere between screaming and crying, both angry and in despair. ''Please...'' Raoul repeated with his most soothing voice.

Erik looked up and nodded like he was trying to compose himself. Raoul thought that the man really had changed. When he had first met him, back then, in Paris he would have not been able to control such fit. He would have burned the whole town down out of pure despair. Yet not now. It was his first emotional outburst since Christine's death. And he mastered it. Raoul sighed with relief, he was not at all sure if he could contain Erik otherwise.

The masked man slicked back his hair nervously, ''Something bad has happened,'' he started slowly. ''Remember when Gustave started to take particular intrest in France? Culture, literature?''

''I recall it was a few months ago, was it not? He was running between both of us begging to take him on a trip to Paris. I am not surprised. He probably misses home.''

''Yes, indeed,'' Erik acknowledged, casting his gaze down on his hands. ''And I told him, as you did, that we will around Christmas time.''

''Yes, when the theatre season is not at its wildest.''

''He had been gravely disappointed that he would have to wait for so long. I wanted to make it up to him thus I supplied him with every French book, introduced him to every French artist around, did my best and so the boy made certain acquaintances. I was not aware of some of them, apparently...''

Raoul's eyes widened with understanding, ''No, no, tell me he didn't...''

Erik nodded, ''Somehow, I do not know if only through letters or also in person, he got to know this appalling creature, this _Leroux_...''

Raoul sunk down in his armachair, covering his face with hands, ''He knows.''

''He does.''

''I gather he is not pleased.''

There was silence for a long while so Raoul raised his head to see what happened. Erik was standing by the fireplace, leaning on the marble ledge and staring down at his feet. He looked just like a statue and not a living man. Tall, slim, pale and unmoving. All that could be heard from him was his uneven breathing.

The vicomte, unsure of what to do, stood up and went straight to Erik. He wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but was not certain what would happen if he did. The masked man seemed, once again, like he was on a brink of mental breakdown.

When he spoke his voice was small, quiet and shy, ''I don't know what version had he read. It doesn't matter. Any of them would do. The boy...'' he stopped, trying to control his breathing, ''…the boy left.''

Raoul blinked, ''Left... where?''

Erik shook his head not looking up, ''He left. Ran away. I can't find him. Miss Fleck did not see him and she was all around the whole evening. No one saw him. I asked, I ran, I... I cannot find him and it's my fault...''

''There is no point in blaming yourself. It was years ago, you can't undo...'' he stopped because Erik looked at him and in these eyes there was the whole weight of the world, the emptiness of the night sky with no stars.

''I am aware,'' he said with his voice low with the burden of guilt and shame, ''but I... yelled at him. I... I told him such things... Oh, Raoul, you haven't seen him! He wasn't Christine's son. He was all mine! He was so much like me... and I snapped. I snapped... I... I haven't changed at all. I am still the same... _monster_ that I was... I should not be allowed to be father to this child. You should have taken him and be gone... I infect him, I turn him into myself, I twist him, I...''

Raoul shook his head firmly, ''Stop it. I cannot believe I'm saying this, but this is simply not true. Not a word of it. I mean, yes, you probably yelled at him, that I believe and I believe it had scared him off. But you,'' he sighed loudly, ''you have changed. Otherwise, you would not just yell at him, you would lash out, gone crazy, burn the whole place down. It is only natural to argue with a teenager. It is normal he acts like that. It is the nature of his age. Not to say, I don't blame him. Our family history isn't actually snow-white, is it?'' he smiled sadly. ''And, even so, you still have a right to be angry and yell at him from time to time. It doesn't turn you back into what you once were. You are a human being. It happens.''

Erik was gazing back at him througout all his long speech, focused, but also clearly surprised. ''Unusual,'' he spoke finally, ''to hear you, of all people, saying this.''

Raoul shrugged his shoulders, ''We are in this together. Blaming one another will not help anyone.''

Erik's lips twitched as he was about to smile, yet restrained himself, ''Perhaps you are right.''

Raoul was so close to roll his eyes, ''Fine, then. Time to find our son.''

Erik nodded solemnly.

Vicomte smiled internaly; apparently he inheritated from Christine not only a madman, but also a full-time job of taking care of him and soothing his ocasional breakdowns. Odd. He thought to himself, he could not actually hate the job. Or the man. Not anymore.


	4. In a sense, he's lost already.

They went straight to the park. The boy did not know any other place in town. He barely ever left Phantasma so wherever he was it must have been in the park. Or so they had hoped.

Erik assumed the mask of Mister Y so naturally it seemed he actually was him to the very core. He had retrived his jacket, put his clothes and hair in order and went throught the crowd of the park looking like a king marching amongst his subjects.

Phantasma was opened almost until morning, much longer than any other park. Erik believed firmly that such place belongs to the night because only at night magic could exist. Light of day would shatter his illusions, cure the crowd of believing in forest made of mirrors and the automaton-elephant so vigorous it might have as well been alive. Thus the park must have been opened until late hours. Until dawn. And people would come; noisy people, laughing people and sometimes also freaks looking for shelter that Mister Y would always grant them.

Oh, this bitter irony of his life – he had run away from the circus many years ago just to end up in another one as its owner so many years later. Well, he thought, if that was where his life had led him, if that was the only environment he could safely exist in, then he would make it glorious. He would make it spectacular and, what is most important, he would make people working in it feel wanted, loved and respected because once, so long ago, he was not treated this way in such place.

In this chaos of laugter and joy, shadows and clowns, he felt like a duck to water. He kept walking and people instinctively moved aside to let him through. Raoul was following him, trying desperately to match is insane speed and long steps. Then, suddenly, he lost the tall silhouette from the eyesight and had to stop to look around.

Cotton candy, fireworks, chattering youngsters, smell of corn, metallic rustle of rollercoaster in the backround. Somebody bumped into him, he turned, no one. His head started to spin. He went forward just to find himself among mirrors reflecting golden dragons so real he could almost feel their sulphur breath on his face. He turned to see a princess in the tower so tall it nearly reached to the moon high above. Her porcelain face and brown curles... So high, high above... He thought he saw Christine. Alive. Back there, in the tower. He wanted to scream. It was impossible! And yet there she was in a golden tower, with golden bars in the window of her room... Then somebody pulled him out and suddenly he was in the crowd again.

''Do not wander off,'' said Mister Y, not letting go of his arm. ''I know you still haven't visited the park properly. It is a labyrinth. Such specimen as you are may easily get lost in it and never see the light of day again. I am not joking, Raoul, in Phantasma not I, but the night is an emperor.''

The vicomte nodded nervously, ''Fine, but, but what if Gustave got lost here? Won't he be gone forever?''

Mister Y smiled subtly, ''He had spent six years in here. In a sense, he's lost already.''

It did not soothe Raoul's nerves in the least, but maybe, just maybe, it really meant that Gustave did not leave the place. It was his playground, after all. His home. Raoul felt odd sadness thinking about it. He knew exactly why. It made him painfully aware of the similarities between Gustave and his biological father. He had been aware of them for years, but they only grew more and more visible with each passing year. Raoul and Gustave were just so different that he was surprised the boy was interested in talking to him at all! They had simply nothing in common!

Gustave was violinist, pianist, composer, singer. He had been able to construct a music box from clockwork mechanisms and some junk on his own when he was twelve and the bigger-on-the-inside box with mirrors when he was fourteen. He could hide so well no one would ever find him, even Mister Y. In the end, he was so similar to his biological father. Growing thinner, paler and more sensitive each year. His temper started to shift when he was fifteen. He could get so frustrated, dramatic, so angry... Only the eyes – round, warm and brown were Christine's. And ability to control himself so well. Oh, yes, she could do that too. Best proof she could stand ten years of Raoul's poor actions and constant absence.

''Raoul,'' the voice brought him back to reality. He discovered they were standing, not walking and Mister Y's hand was still embracing his bicep. ''You must stop torturing yourself.''

The vicomte looked at Mister Y surprised. Was he a mind reader?

The masked man smiled kindly (how odd was to see him smile like that!), ''I know because I saw this face in a mirror many times. I kept breaking them not to ever see it again. Let me tell you, it will not help. It's in your mind. Let it go or you will end up just like me.''

''Being a circus owner?'' Raoul said that before he could stop himself and he was ready to regret it, but to his utter surprise, Mister Y started to laugh. It was melodic, deep laugh of a perfect vocalist, velvet baritone. So peculiar thing to hear! He laughed out too. It was such a disaster! It was insane! The two of them, looking for their son and stupidly laughing together somewhere between hot-dog boxes and a concert hall! If someone told him that this is going to be his future he would never ever believe it. Who would?

''We should go,'' Mister Y said when the laughter ceased.

''Would you mind telling me where are we going? You said you have an idea...''

''Yes, I may be wrong, but I suspect he may be in one place where none of my many workers would find him, where even I may not be able find him if he does not want me to,'' he waved his hand towards huge building with front door so wide that it could fit in an army of elephants easily. It was the concert hall. ''I checked it before, to be honest, but as I said, the boy may not want to be found. And I was... not in my right mind back then.''

Raoul blinked, ''So how we are supposed to find him?''

Mister Y did not answer.


	5. Fathers, stop it or I'll drop the chandalier down!

The inside of this giant facility was no less impressive than its facade. The ceiling of foyer was so high it was impossible to see it. Especially then, when they entered the building because the lights were mostly off. It was late. Almost midnight. The shows were long over. The old janitor let them in and did his best not to seem anyhow surprised seeing two such important individualities. Mister Y noded him in greeting and moved inside without further ado.

Raoul gazed around worriedly, ''This place is huge! Much bigger than I remembered.''

''Oh, yes, and it seems even bigger in half-light,'' Mister Y spoke with voice no louder than a whisper. ''I designed it this way.''

''Of course you did,'' Raoul murmured. ''When it comes to creating illusions and magic of the night you were always most amazingly gifted.''

Mister Y turned his head around to look at him, ''There is no malice in your voice.''

''Why would there be? It's true.''

''I haven't noticed any fascination with such matters on your part.''

Raoul smiled, ''Because you haven't paid attention. I fell in love with Christine and she was, for better or for worse, very much like you. A sparkle of light she might have been, but in love with the darkness. Part of me was always fascinated with this rare phenomenon. Well, part was scared. I was, after all, brought up in the word of light.''

Mister Y nodded shortly, but said nothing as they just entered the main hall. There were two other halls in the building, but they were in fact much smaller and quite insignificant. If someone were to hide in such place he would not choose anything smaller than the main one.

The great hall was enormous, with ornamented boxes on each side of the stage. It looked even more impressive than the Opera Populaire.

Raoul followed Mister Y blindly through the aisle, towards the stage, ''Where do we start, actually? Where shall we look?'' he asked.

''It depends,'' he replied, ''where the boy escaped? To the Sultan's Palace, to Verona, to the Enchanted Wood or under the sea?''

''I don't believe I follow...''

Mister Y smiled and led him to the backstage and then, down the spiral staircase under the stage where the vast maze of mechanical contraptions were spreading as far as an eye could see.

''You see,'' he said, pointing to the row of multicoloured levers, ''usually at theaters or operas they have scenography partly operated manually; set on the stage by crewmen and partly operated with such mechanisms. Well, they have much more simplistic mechanisms, less refined, but still. I have all of them orchestared from here. No need of any crewmen at all. Red ones are for Sultan's Palace, blue are for the under the sea set, green for the woods, white for Verona and so on. I have over seventy different sets here. This stage, dear vicomte, is a box, inside a box, inside a box, inside box and with each combination you can open different rooms, different corridors. Moreover, if you know how (and Gustave knows how), you can go to these places and shut the door behind you so no one can find you,'' Mister Y finished and pulled one of the levers. Raoul's eyes went huge with sheer shock. The whole understage shifted. In the far away darkness something moved. Passages dissapeared, open speces turned into walls, red curtains went black. When it all went still Mister Y spoke in his magnetic voice of a true magician, ''It's perhaps time we go up and check if the boy is not by any chance in night's might.''

Raoul swallowed and nodded shortly. Not waiting for Mister Y to move he went first, but he had to stop quickly for the staircase simply vanished!

''Better follow me,'' Mister Y suggested, showing him to the very same staircase, but on the opposite side of the understage.

Raoul would spend some more time thinking how the stairs could have vanished from one corner and appeared in another, but he entered the stage and immediately lost the ability to think. A silver moon, thin and fragile was high upon a starry sky, the giant twisted rocks guarded the whole stage, reaching towards the audience as they wanted to escape the illusion's realm. There were trees, unreal with purple leaves and blue grass...

''Oh, oh!'' Raoul gasped suddenly forgetting why they were there. ''Oh, but it's beautiful!''

Mister Y, creeping cautiously behind him smiled proudly, but said nothing. Raoul glanced at him and noticed for the first time since he had turned back into Mister Y how tense he was. The masked man was gazing around looking for any sign of movement.

''Do you think he is here? Should we call out his name?'' Raoul asked as Mister Y passed him by swiftly, clearly worried.

''Oh, no, no. I don't think that's wise. I wouldn't want to scare him off again... I...''

Raoul approached him and carefully put a hand on his arm. Mister Y twitched loosing his magician's charm. He was Erik again. ''Don't worry. We will find him.''

Erik nodded, but did not look convinced. ''Anyway,'' he spoke, shyly escaping further phisical contact, ''he's not here.''

''How do you know?''

''Oh, trust me, I know my worlds well enough to know if somebody visited them or not. Let's go and check another one.''

And so they proceed. Raoul roamed through the Enchanted Wood, among fairies and talking wolves, looked from up the famous balcony in Verona, swam with the sirens, danced at the masked ball and so much more. He started to doubt the reality and lost the ability to recognise what is true and what is just an illusion. The sets were so real no one would say that's all they were. At some point Raoul, for the first time ever, started to understand why Christine believed that Erik was the Angel of Music. He was capable of such wizardry! And, oh, yes, he was a genius! Indeed, he could comprehend then why his late wife loved that man so fiercely. Such man, in spite of his temper and deforamations, could definitely be loved!

These worlds were beautiful, but with every visit paid to each of them he grew more and more worried for there was no sign of Gustave anywhere. Erik was getting even more frantic in his search. Scattering through the worlds, entering and exiting hidden doors, inspecting mirrors and windows. Raoul could see in his whole behviour that, though he was opposed to the idea of calling out boy's name at first, he was now close to scream it out loud.

And then, when Erik began to mutter to himself and pace in circles like a madman he partly was, a voice came, ''You Monsieur and you Monsieur, you ruin the perfect silence! I am here so just leave me and go home. Bother me no more!''

''Gustave!'' Erik's broken voice echoed through the vast hall.

''Gustave!'' Raoul shouted, looking around, but not finding where the boy was. His voice seemed to come from all around, up, down, underground. The vicomte rolled his eyes; obviously, he thought, like father like son. They were both capable of such annoying tricks. ''Come here at once!''

''Oh, you, Monsieur, especially you, don't get to command me because, you, Monsieur, yes, you, a sane man, a normal man, knew who my father was and not only said nothing, but let him be my father! And he is a murderer!''

Erik whimpered quiet ' _Gustave, please..._ ' in the background and Raoul's felt genuinely irritated, ''We really are horrible fathers, but not because of what we did or did not do back during the opera affair, but because we thaught you no manners at all! Is this how you speak to your parents? Who offered you nothing, but love and care? Is this how you solve problems?''

Silence. It actually worked, thought Raoul, the boy is considering his behaviour so surely...

''Oh, Monsieur, is so good you mentioned that! Solving problems, you said. You two thaught me not to talk to one another unless it is really necessary. Did you think I wouldn't notice you can barely stand each other? Not sure, if that's what co-parenting is all about! And me, oh, _mon Monsieurs_ , I'm a son of a madman-murderer and a ex-drunk-gambler. How could I know how to behave? Oh, yes, Monsieur Leroux explained a lot to me. The things he learned about our family! You know he considers a sequel to his fictional story?''

Raoul looked back at Erik who was standing there like a mannequin with his face wet with tears. Vicomte grinded his teeth in frustration.

''Gustave,'' the vicomte spoke once again, this time softer, ''we are just humans. We make mistakes. Me and your other father, well, we made a lot of them. Now, here, in Phantasma, we are trying to make amends. None of us is begging you for forgivness because what we have done cannot be forgiven. Your father, Erik, do not judge him so harshly, though. Back then in Paris, he was left alone and despised, rejected by everyone for such petty crime: deformed face. And look around, just look!'' Raoul pointed to the set of mirror labyrinth behind him, ''He could create such amazing beauty! A man of such genius forced to live underground! None of us can imagine how's that like... I dare to say...'' he glanced at Erik who's face was paler than usual, eyes enormous with shock and trails of drying tears on his cheeks, ''...you can rather forgive him being a murderer and hiding it from you because he simply did not want to be rejected again, than forgive me for being the worst possible father for no reason at all for so many years in the past.''

''Son,'' it was Erik speaking, his voice cracking, so small for a man with voice usually so melodic and deep, ''don't listen to him...'' Raoul looked at him surprised and a little bit hurt too, but Erik continued, ''...There's no way to justify my actions back then. I was insane! I still am, but I am trying hard. So hard for you. Your father, however, deserves forgivness. He was a drunk, he was a gambler, true, but it was me who poisoned his family. His and your mother's love. You should have seen him back at the opera! A hero, an actual prince charming, he was, saving your mother, fighting me, a monster, so bravely...'' his voice broke and for a moment he could not speak, but then he regained the ability, ''...if you want to, you can leave with him. If you cannot stand being here, around me, I'll understand. I'll give you both enough money to...''

''Oh, shut it!'' Raoul could not stop himself. ''How many times are you going to give up the one you love, sacrificing yourself? Has it done any good to us in the past, tell me? Such sacrificing?''

''How dare you say such thing to me! I defend you, I offer...''

''ERIK! You belong here with him and me!''

''I may belong in many places, but I certainly do not belong with you, sir!''

Raoul rolled his eyes, ''Oh, for Christ's sake! I swear, you are impossible!''

''I am impossible? It is you who cannot understand that I am not good enough to be his father! I'm a murderer! He hates me!''

''You are no such thing anymore and he doesn't! Stop this miserable self-loathing or...''

Erik took an angry step towards Raoul, ''Or what?!'' he growled looking very contradictory with fury in his eyes and drying tears on his cheeks. Raoul took a step towards Erik ready to punch him right in that stupid masked face.

''Fathers!'' yelled Gustave. ''Fathers, stop it or I'll drop the chandalier down!''

Both Erik and Raoul stopped at once and looked up at the vividly decorated chandalier up above and then they saw him. Gustave was sitting on the top of it.

''Gustave!'' they yelled simultaneously.

''Be careful!'' Raoul shouted scared to bits. It was so high he could barely see the boy. ''How did he get there?'' he muttered under his breath and then yelled, ''How did you get there?!''

''Attic,'' Erik said quietly. ''Through attic.''

''Of course, you'd know... Of course...''

''It's not my doing... I wouldn't... I'm not _that_ anymore... Who am I trying to fool... _I am_ , I am... But Gustave... GUSTAVE, PLEASE!''

''Come down, please, come down!''

''There's no need to shout!'' Gustave replied. ''I'm coming down! Wait!''

Raoul and Erik exchanged surprised glances and waited. There was some rustling above and then steps through the old, squeaky wooden floor, steps on the stairs.

Gustave came through the set so that the many mirrors reflected his thin figure hundreds of times creating an illusion of an army.

The boy's clothes were dirty and a smudge of dust was smeared across his cheek, but otherwise he was unharmed.

''Listen,'' he said slowly. ''I would not crush the chandalier. I meant it as a joke. Not to say I wanted you to stop fighting, fathers.''

''Gustave...'' Raoul started.

Gustave stopped him in mid-sentence, ''No, let me...'' he took a deep breath trying to control himself, ''I am... _angry_. No, I'm furious. I want to smash every mirror here on set, I want to break... but I will not repeat some mistakes you two made...''

Erik opened his mouth, but Gustave was quicker, ''I don't just mean you. Or blame you. I blame both of you. How could you both do that to me? Not say a thing?''

''Would you understand?'' Raoul asked.

''Probably not, but hearing the story from you, preferably, you both and without yelling at one another, would help. I had to listen to a stranger telling me all this through letters. I didn't believe him at first, but he knew such details, had such proof, down to letters O.G. had sent to the managers of the opera. The handwriting was yours, father...''

''Did it occur to you that that man...''

''Tried to get some more from me? Use me? Sure. And yes, he tried. The old, stinking gambler... But he was not lying with the story. I have found old papers, reports... It happend. Doesn't matter how much of it he had twisted when he turned it into a work of fiction. His original data was honest... You can't imagine how I felt... I...''

''Lost control?'' Erik suggested shyly.

The boy nodded, ''Yes,'' then he smiled, ''but you know what made me regain the control?''

Raoul and Erik both shook their heads.

''You two! You didn't hate each other just for a moment there! All these years I really appreciated that you get along at all, but I could see just how much you avoided one another, only talking business. Oh, and these quiet dinners we used to have, remember? You trying hard not to look at one another across the table and little me, chattering, so desperate to get you to talk! And now, today, you finally understood each other! You, father!'' he looked at Raoul. ''You saw the beauty underneath for the first time! And you, father!'' he looked at Erik. ''You saw that light in him, you once saw in my mother and you wanted to let him go! Oh, now I know our history so much better, I see its fabric, its complicated patterns and I know how difficult it was for you two to cooperate and yet tonight you did.''

''For you,'' Raoul said, stealing an unsure glance at Erik.

Gustave shook his head, ''Not only. You actually _liked_ one another, fathers. Don't deny it. Don't bother. Let me have this. If you two can find a way together, then you cannot be the same two men Leroux told me about. Could those men from Paris ever like each other?''

Erik seemed tense, but he snorted a brief laugh anyway, ''Oh, no, they could not...''

Raoul laughed too, ''Oh, no, that would be...''

''Absurd!''

''Complete and utter!''

Gustave smiled, ''See? But don't get too happy. Don't think I forgive you. I don't. It's not something that can be forgiven, but it's something you can both try to repair. As best as you can. It will be difficult for me. Not to see you as... the men you once were. Yet... I still love you both.''

In this very moment, Gustave looked nothing like Erik. He was speeding image of Christine. Understanding and patient. With round, brown eyes.

Erik came to his son and smiled brokenly, then he raised his hand and gently removed the dust stain from his cheek, ''We love you too, son,'' he said softly.

Raoul looked at them and sighed with relief. Just then he realised he was tense all the time. He felt the pressure leaving his shoulders. ''Good God, you two are impossible!'' he exclaimed and embraced them tighly, not caring if Erik will murder him later for the audicity.

Gustave chocked something between a laugh and a sob. Erik made an odd sound in the back of his throat and relaxed suddely, accepting the weird possibility that Raoul de Chagny might actually hug him.


End file.
